


the best time to wear a striped sweater

by maurascalla



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Birthday, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Nonbinary Bucky Barnes (mentioned), Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maurascalla/pseuds/maurascalla
Summary: Sam forgets it's his birthday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky's in this fic a lot for someone who isn't in this fic.

It’s dark out by the time Sam makes it home from the VA, his shoulder bag sagging in his arms. He’s been overseeing later and later sessions to accommodate his boss’s new schedule and it’s running him ragged. He’s exhausted most days and tired for the rest. 

Usually when he gets home, Steve is playing video games in the living room with Bucky, or shut up in his study doing whatever it is he does when he gets melancholy about the past. Sam thinks it might be knitting, or maybe macramé, since there have been an unprecedented number of AC Moore bags in the plastic bag drawer in their kitchen lately. There’s always a plate of something sitting in the oven for Sam though, wrapped in tinfoil and kept warm on a low setting. Tonight, it’s different. When Sam walks through the front door, Steve is standing in the hallway looking fresh and smelling clean like Old Spice. 

“Hey, Sam,” he says with a bright grin. His hair is neat and combed. He’s flushing pink and ducking his head, trying to look shy and sweet, like Captain America, boy from the 1940’s, should be, but he can’t hide the way his grin becomes a smirk. He’s looking at Sam through his eyelashes. 

“What’s up?” Sam asks, instantly suspicious. Steve holds out one large, board palm and gestures for Sam’s bag. With a sigh of relief Sam gives it up, instantly feeling lighter. 

Steve’s face falls just a little, and Sam furrows his brow. It passes quickly and before Sam can say anything, he’s smiling again even brighter than before, his shiny white toothed grin taking up most of his face. 

“You forgot!” he crows, laughing. He slings Sam’s bag on the coat rack by the door, on the only hook that hasn’t got one of Bucky’s thousand ugly sweaters hanging from it. Steve takes his jacket too and hangs it over the bag’s strap where it will stay until tomorrow when Sam will somehow find the strength to get up and go back into work. 

Completely devoid of the trappings of his day, Sam rolls his shoulders and flexes to get some feeling back into his fingers, to feel like At Home Sam and less Sam Against the World. “What did I forget?” he asks. 

Steve takes Sam’s hand gently in his own and doesn’t pull so much as guide him forward, the slightest suggestion of movement that has Sam following him down the hallway and into their roomy open concept kitchen. 

Sam starts to ask him again what’s going on, but he gets as far as, “Steve-“ before he’s shushed for his efforts. The man in question tugs a little harder on their joined hands and they slide through the kitchen, pausing at the back door long enough to open the screen door. It slams shut behind them. 

Set up on their back porch is a table with an honest-to-god checkered table cloth. There’s a cake in the center, a vase with sunflowers, and an almost hilariously poorly wrapped lump covered in sparkling print telling someone to have a ‘Happy Birthday!!!’. 

“Well shit.” Sam honestly can’t believe he forgot. He glances over at Steve’s face and he looks like he wants to laugh at Sam so badly but he’s keeping it in, biting his lip. His eyes are shiny with mirth. Sam’s heart swells in his chest, beating against his rib cage in a crushing rhythm. “Happy Birthday to me, I guess,” he says a little breathlessly. He swallows around an unexpected and unwelcome lump in this throat and laughs. It’s a little rough and a little strained, but it’s happy. 

“Happy Birthday to you,” Steve agrees, squeezing his hand in Sam’s almost too hard. He pulls Sam in for a hug, grips the back of his skull and holds on tight. Sam folds his arms around Steve’s middle and breathes in the alcohol smell of his deodorant and the clean linen of his shirt and his skin. 

“I forgot,” Sam mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Steve rubs at the delicate skin behind one of Sam’s ears, turning his head to kiss his cheek. “You’ve been so busy.”

“I have been,” Sam says, agreeing completely. “I’ve been very, very busy and I deserve this.” 

Steve laughs, pulling away from Sam and digging into the alarmingly deep front pocket of his pressed khakis. He pulls out a lighter, a Bic with a peeling design of a cat riding a taco in space. Sam knows that it’s Bucky’s because two weeks ago, he stole it. He spent his only day off carefully removing the plastic coating and writing ‘SAM RULES’ on the inside before gluing the frayed coating back. It was an afternoon well spent, honestly. They love a good prank. 

Sam sits down at the table, almost falling into his chair. Steve lights the candles on the cake. There are two of them, numbers that spell out just how old Sam is these days. The cake itself has at least two layers and the frosting looks bumpy, like the underside of a crackle bar. Sam waits until Steve is in his own chair, bread knife in hand, to blow out his candles. 

“I wanted to sing the song!” Steve exclaims, running the knife through the cake, making big pieces out of the pie. 

“It’s my birthday,” Sam points out, “And you can’t sing worth a damn, why would I want that to ruin the mood?” 

“Hey now!” Steve squawks, mock indignant. His hands are thrown over his chest, face contorted and overly dramatized. He gets frosting stuck to his chin for his efforts. He doesn’t seem to notice and Sam doesn’t say anything. 

“And another thing, _sweetheart_ ,” Sam says, eyebrow raised. 

“Oh, boy.” Steve flops a huge piece of yellow cake onto a bright yellow plate and hands it to Sam with a fork. Sam takes both and sets them down on the table in front of him. He keeps his eyebrows pointedly raised. 

“Sweetheart?” He prompts. 

“Oh, so Bucky can call you ‘sweetheart,’ but not me!” Steve says, and he’s maybe a little indignant for real this time. He serves himself a piece of cake with a side of pout, his eyebrows coming together like they do when he’s grumpy. Sam smiles and shakes his head. 

“You can call me whatever you want, baby,” Sam laughs. He pokes at his cake experimentally. “It was cute. You’re cute.” 

Steve blushes and busies himself by stabbing at his piece of cake. Sam watches covertly, under his eyelashes, as he lifts the cake into his mouth. He makes a 'hmmming' noise, the way he does when he’s considering artwork in a museum. He chews dramatically and makes a show of swallowing and wiping his mouth with a yellow napkin that matches the plates. 

“How is it?” Sam asks, not even trying to be subtle anymore. He pokes at his slice again while he waits for Steve’s verdict. 

“It’s good!” He says, defensive. Sam rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to remind Steve of the time he made spiced chicken with black pepper and salt, and only black pepper and salt, but Steve concedes and admits, “Bucky made the cake.” Sam breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Bucky’s got skills,” Sam says. He points his cake laden fork at Steve menacingly. “Don’t you dare tell them I said that.” 

Steve mimes zipping his lips while Sam shoves his fork into his mouth. The cake tastes like vanilla and sugar and it’s fluffy and moist and good enough to warrant using the word moist. The frosting, on the other hand, tastes like baking soda, somehow, and almonds. “Oh my God,” Sam says, covering his mouth with his hand, forcing himself to swallow. “Steve, did you help?” 

“I made the icing,” he replies, sounding so proud of himself that Sam almost feels bad about dragging the long side of his fork down the back side of his cake wedge and removing all the frosting in one fell swoop. Almost. 

“I love you,” Sam says before Steve can say anything at all. Steve frowns, but nods in understanding. He remembers the thing with the chicken too, Sam assumes. 

“I love you too,” he smiles, reaching across the table. Sam meets him halfway and they spend a few minutes being sappy and in love while eating cake. A breeze blows through and it ruffles Steve’s hair and flips the corners of the table cloth up. Sam feels settled, good. He runs his fingers over Steve’s and smiles when Steve flirts back. He feels all of twenty years old, and giggles when Steve finally discovers the frosting on his chin and furiously wipes it off with the hand that isn’t twined in Sam’s. 

After their cake is done, Steve eating two slices to Sam’s one, he pulls his hand from Sam’s and pushes the badly wrapped lump across the table. 

“Oh, you want me to open this? This right here?” Sam jokes, shaking the package. It’s squishy and soft. Steve makes a get-on-with-it gesture and Sam does, tearing open the crinkling paper. 

Inside is something made of the fluffiest yarn Sam has ever felt under his fingers. He unfolds it, and it takes shape as a lovely attempt at a cable knit sweater. It looks warm and feels like a hundred kittens.

He peeks out from behind the sweater, looks at Steve and his nervous, hopeful grin and Sam’s cheeks hurt he’s smiling so wide. 

“I knew you were up to something!” He cries, victorious. “How many skeins did you buy, man? There are like fifty craft store bags in the kitchen.” 

Steve rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I messed up a couple of times. Bucky’s therapist wanted them to try it, but they hated it so I tried it and I’ve been watching so many YouTube channels. People can do so many awesome things with yarn, Sam! I had no idea!” 

Sam nods, stripping off his button up work shirt. He folds it a little haphazardly and sets it on the table, careful not to get it in the cake. Over his white undershirt, he slides on the sweater and it feels just as good on as it did in his hands. 

“Lemme see?” Steve asks, leaning forward. 

With a flourish, Sam stands and poses for him. The sleeves on the sweater are too long, the cuffs brushing the tips of his fingers, and the torso is much too short, coming up over his navel. He looks down at himself in his fuzzy sweater and loves the red that threads its way through the black yarn, loves how cozy and warm he feels. 

He shrugs out of the sweater, then out of his under shirt. His skin prickles in the crisp evening air, and he makes a point of looking at Steve, at showing him his shoulders and his back before sliding the sweater back over his arms. He pops his head through the too big neck hole, and likes the way the thick collar rests over his collarbones, dipping down almost onto his chest. 

Sam stands there, midriff on full display, hands covered almost completely, and loves the soft look on Steve’s face more than anything else this evening. He ducks his head and grins at Steve through his eyelashes. 

The softness of Steve’s face hardens and his eyes turn dark and dusky. It should be awkward, the two of them standing there, staring at each other, but it isn’t. It isn’t awkward at all. Sam feels hot all over and he keeps waiting for Steve to break first, but he doesn’t and it feels like an eternity that Sam is watching Steve watching him in his new sweater and his nice work jeans. 

“Get over here,” Sam orders when he can’t wait anymore. Steve doesn’t bother pretending to take his time. His chair topples over in his haste to get to the other side of the table. 

“Can I?” Steve asks, hands hovering over Sam’s body. As soon as he gets the go-ahead, his hands are on Sam’s skin, sliding up his stomach onto his chest, under the sweater. 

Sam pulls on Steve’s ugly dress shirt, the one with all the blue stripes he wears when he wants to look nice, and kisses him. It’s hot like burning but with an undercurrent, something cottony and warm. 

It’s dark out when Sam leaves the house in the morning, but there’s a faint orange glow coming up over the horizon. Usually when he wakes up in the morning, he goes for a run with Steve who laps him around the mall before doing Sam’s last mile with him as his cool down. They make coffee when they get home and they drink it while they take turns in the shower. 

Today though, Sam wakes up with his face buried in Steve’s neck. He pokes him awake with his cold nose and they kiss until Sam’s alarm goes off, sweet and slow like they don’t have anywhere to be. Their intimate moments spill into their usual jogging time, overtaking it completely until the whole morning is just Steve and Sam and Steve in Sam. 

Sam leaves for work exhausted, but sated. Warm in his sweater. One day older.


End file.
